Painkiller
by starbuckx
Summary: His was always a two-man act, and now he’s perfectly content to make it a solo performance. Until she comes along.


**Story Title: Painkiller **

**Part 1/1**

**Disclaimer: Still not mine, sadly. JKR owns them. **

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**It sounded awfully corny, like the first line in one of those books women read, or the chorus in one of those songs lovers quoted to each other, and he'd never been the romantic type, would never dream of saying it to a woman, but he'd been in pain since Fred died. Not a constant type of pain, an ache that you carry around and you become used to, after a while, like Aunt Mildred's bad back, or Mum's bad knee. No, it was more like a knife stuck in your gut, a pain so intense you'd almost convinced yourself you couldn't be bothered to go on. But you did, because life went on around you.

At first you went on because they were looking after you every waking hour, and there was nothing else you could do but nod and pretend you were doing okay, were doing better, that now that Voldemort was gone you were as ecstatic as everyone else, that you never dabbled in obscure thoughts, that you were your same cheerful self, that you never considered how life would be if you were the one that was gone.

When they convinced themselves you were okay, you went on because, deep down, you knew Fred would never forgive you if you didn't. There was no other reason that mattered. Even if you were the martyr type, and you weren't, just that notion would be enough to change your mind, and you were as sure of that as you were sure of the fact that you were George, not Fred, and that Fred would never, ever come back.

"It gets better, with time." People had said, during the first days. They'd never said it to him, but he'd heard the words muttered to Mum and Dad, sometimes to Ginny. He didn't want to give any credence to the words, but it was true, it got easier with time. You stopped making jokes and waiting for the punch line, because after a while, you realized it's never again going to be delivered.

The knife in your gut was never altered, however. The pain remained constant. It was easier, he decided. Pain was the easier feeling. Easier to understand, easier to explain, easier to quantify. My brother died, so I'm in pain. People understood that. Except he never actually tried to explain. He doesn't really care for understanding, not even from his own family. His was always a two-man act, and now he's perfectly content to make it a solo performance.

Until she comes along.

She doesn't try understanding, doesn't do gentle and kind. Others have tried that, with various degrees of success. Ginny tried getting mad at him, throwing stuff. She was more successful, but she was still Ginny, and what did she want from him – a complete breakdown, for him to sob in her arms, or a philosophical conversation about how it felt to be missing half of you?

He doesn't feel ready for any of that – it's all too raw, like maybe, just maybe he can't formulate a coherent response just yet, doesn't know how he's supposed to respond because he can't feel anything other than the pain- and then she's there and she isn't gentle, or kind – but she isn't angry either, or at least she doesn't look angry, but if she isn't any of those things, and she's gotta be something, then what is she?

In her arms he understands passion for the first time, and it's a complete cliché, and he thinks Fred must be laughing at him somewhere, having one last cruel joke at his expense, because banging your dead brother's girlfriend – that's got to be top on the list of things you shouldn't be doing.

He doesn't stop, even if he feels the echo of laughter in his good ear, and at times, thinks he must be imagining it, because Fred can't be laughing, Fred wouldn't be pleased to see him with Angelina. It feels like he's betraying a ghost.

Passion is an easy release, however. Too simple to let go of it, especially when everything else in his life seems too demanding, everyone else seems to be expecting so much of him. Mum looks at him every day, eyes brimming with unshed tears, begging him to cry with her, and he never wants to, except sometimes he does, but how can he explain that. That most of the time he's not in the mood to grieve – but he'd grieve with them every once in a while – if they'd let him.

But he feels bipolar in his grief, and he's not two sides of a coin now – not anymore, so they don't seem to understand that.

Angelina doesn't ask him how he's feeling, doesn't wax poetic about Fred. In fact – for all their encounters, she doesn't really say much. She's in pain too, that's very obvious, and he's merely a substitute at first, he realizes this, but he's past the point of caring. She wants to drown her sorrows in something other than alcohol, and he's more than willing to oblige her, especially because it serves his needs perfectly – and alcohol has never been the thing to make him forget.

It's some twisted mathematics, but pain plus pain equals a bit of relief, at least for a while.

Mouths meet, and it should be hurried, just a perfunctory kiss – to get it over with, move along to the more interesting stuff, but they always take a long time with it. It's like she wants to explore the differences, and, in a strange way – he likes to show her that there are indeed differences, that for all the similarities he isn't Fred Weasley, he's George, and he's still here.

So he takes his time, savors her mouth, places tiny kisses along her jaw line. Her hands intermingle with his hair, and he thinks of the contrast, marvels at the feel of her skin as he kisses her neck, just where her pulse beats.

Angelina might be many things, but in this, she's quiet. She lets him take the initiative, lets him be in control. He used to find it funny at first, remembered her being more much forceful when she was with Fred, but perhaps that's the point – isn't it? Running away from the past – playing opposites.

Funnily enough, all she makes him want to be is George. There's passion, but it takes a while to build up inside him, to make him loose his breath. It's like he's holding on for it, waiting, because he's never sure when it'll be coming, but looking into her eyes, he knows it will be. He can't put into words what he feels for her – doesn't want to, but he knows he can't just kiss her without feeling something.

Oh yes, Fred must be laughing at his expense.

"George, will you stop with the thinking, and just take off your robes…" she whispers, and he can't decide if it's an order, or a plea. He would have done it anyway, especially since her eyes are bright and her hands are making quick work of her own clothes.

Their first time, she kept almost all her clothes. She left as soon as they were finished. The second time they were completely naked, and they spent the night together, wrapped in each other's arms. They've tried many variations since then, but never gone back to the total indifference or total integration of the first two nights. It's like those two nights existed on a different plane.

They never talked about them.

"I meant now," she insists, this time wrapping her arms around his neck and placing her now naked form in contact with him.

"Who said I was thinking?"

"You." She says, punctuating every word with a kiss. "Are." Her tongue is tracing a pattern across his collarbone where his robe used to be, and he can't even remember taking it off. "Extremely" It's strange how sensation can focus on one point. "Easy" She's back to kissing him, and yet he can still feel her hands where she touched him before. "To" Her body is flush against his now. "Read."

He has no answer. Or perhaps he has one, but he chooses to kiss her instead. Everything else is lost in the onslaught.

Passion takes over. Hands do the exploring, as he encounters soft curves that he's beginning to know by heart and the spot behind her knee where she's ticklish. He never fails to be amused by this. Her moans fill his ears, and her hands pay back the favor as they roll around in bed, a frenzy of hands and tongues dueling for attention.

"George," she shouts. She always does. He appreciates it, somehow. It's a reaffirmation, of sorts. She is right here, with him.

They'd be good together, he always thinks. Weird, yes, but good. There are so many issues, but perhaps that's exactly why they would work. Issues would always exist. He will never be whole – a part of him will always be missing, and he dreads having to explain that to someone. He will never have to explain it to her.

She might not completely understand him, but she has an idea. She misses Fred too.

It's funny how he immerses himself in deep thoughts while her tongue does a delicious dance across his navel. She's asserting control, and he can't be anything but pleased, even if her lips are something akin to torture.

He'd be willing to die by this kind of torture.

Coherent thought escapes him as she takes him in fully, building up a rhythm. No dead brothers, no futures, no deep thoughts. Just the two of them, in this moment. And before he can let himself go, he's changed it all up, because it's not about him, it's about them, and she's suddenly in his arms, and he's kissing her, and she's laughing, and whispering his name, and then they're grunting and their lips are molded together and it seems like forever can really be encapsulated in a moment – for them – right now – a moment that ends in a scream – but that continues in an embrace.

Later, head resting against her chest, he's able to gather his thoughts, one by one, pull them against him as if he were picking up the clothes he threw around the room. He doesn't quite mind the loss of consciousness so much, even welcomes it. The pain is gone, and though he has no illusions whatsoever, knows it'll be back with a vengeance, he takes a deep breath and tries to make the most of the few moments of the day he has when he doesn't have to consider who he is – or what he used to be, once upon a time – the time where he can merely exist.

Funny, how she came to him looking for comfort. He isn't sure how much of that he's been able to offer, but for him – she's become even more important than he could have ever imagined.

She's his painkiller.

_The End_

_For getting back into the spirit of writing! To Carrie, who loved the twins, Anne, who issued the challenge, and C, who didn't win. ;) _


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